


What Loneliness More Lonely

by Agnes_Bean



Category: Revenge (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Happy Ending, POV Female Character, POV Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-15
Updated: 2011-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:59:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agnes_Bean/pseuds/Agnes_Bean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emily Thorne trusts no one, but Nolan Ross just can't give up on her, no matter how hard he tries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Loneliness More Lonely

**Author's Note:**

  * For [belmanoir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/belmanoir/gifts).



> Belmanoir, I could not have been more excited when I saw your request. Nolan/Emily is the current ship of my heart, and I truly hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it for you.
> 
> I want to give lots of thanks to my beta, Kastaka, who was both speedy and extremely helpful. Any remaining errors are entirely my own.
> 
> The title is inspired by this incredibly apt quote from George Eliot in Middlemarch: "He distrusted her affection; and what loneliness is more lonely than distrust?"

_Emily Thorne splits the world into three groups – the guilty, the bystanders, and those she trusts._

_The last category contains one person: herself._

**1\. Mistake**

Nolan realized he had feelings for Emily in the middle of seducing Tyler.

Some timing.

Admittedly, he hadn't gotten it on in – well, a while. Certainly not since Ems invaded the Hamptons, transforming another boring, business-filled summer into a twisted game of social humiliation, near-death, and, apparently, sex with con men. There hadn't been another chance for this unpleasant revelation of desire.

Her face hit his mind like a bulldozer as he pulled off Tyler's shirt, her cold glare lodging itself and refusing to let go as he ran his hands along the other man's hard chest, grabbed his hair and heard his exaggerated groans.

Here he was, about to fuck the shit out of an attractive sleazeball, James Bond style, and he couldn't get her voice out of his head, her cold _go away_ s, the annoyed way she said his name. And that definitely shouldn't turn him on.

“You like this?” Tyler murmured, licking his way across Nolan's collarbone. “This getting you hard?” Nolan nodded. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn't a particularly big lie.

Afterward they lay entwined, con and con, plots within plots, faking contentment with every lazy sigh. The image of her smile lingered, an impression he couldn't shake.

Damn it. Damn it, damn it.

He was screwed.

***

He managed to keep his feelings under wraps, even from Miss Incredibly Inconvenient Crush herself. Played lust off as fascination; hid behind his continued instance that Jack was the man for her. He was, after all. Jack, who retained that mystical link to the girl she could have been. Jack, who would save her, if anyone could. Jack, who could sweep her off on the Amanda, sail her far away from the Hamptons and never look back.

Jack, Jack, Jack. If he focused on that perfect match, his stupid crush would evaporate, _poof_ , like it never happened. That was the theory, anyway, and Nolan was pretty good with theories.

It almost worked. Maybe. The plan definitely had potential.

Then he tried to walk away.

He told her that he was done with her evil games and he meant it.He hadn't signed up to have his sex life thrust in Conrad Grayson's face, and he couldn't help her if he was just another pawn in her game; getting out of Dodge before the bullets started flying was the only sane thing to do.

He was right when he twisted the father-shaped screw, too. David _would_ be disappointed in her. If he was being honest – and why not? Everything else had gone wrong, might as well hate himself, too – David would also be disappointed in him. He was supposed to protect her, not join in her sadistic reindeer games.

But as he stormed off – anger hot along his neck, the image of David preaching forgiveness behind bulletproof glass sharp in his memory – he realized his protest wouldn’t last long. Couldn't.

He stalked along the beach, a warm breeze tickling around his face with an ironic sort of pleasantness. His weakness made him want to vomit, but he could already feel the tug, the desire to run straight back into her web. Maybe Tyler had it right – maybe he was just pathetic and lonely.

Or maybe he had fallen even further than he'd thought.

So, fine. He'd go back. He'd go back, and he'd get her together with Jack, and David would be proud from beyond the grave and everything would work out just fine.

That was the theory.

Then one day in early August – the kind of day where the heat lay like a sticky blanket, a stranglehold on his brain – they sat across from each other on her couch. She was rattling off a list of things she needed for her engagement party, some sort of brilliant plan to get Lydia off their hands once and for all. He tried to follow the details, but the name Daniel kept popping up. Daniel, Daniel, Daniel.

Daniel who she was _engaged to_.

Without thinking, he reached out and grabbed her hand. “Don't marry him.”

It was a mistake.

Emily snatched her hand back, fixing him with a cold glare that made one thing deadly clear: she could see right through him.

“It's too risky,” he covered. “You don't know who you'll hurt. Victoria could start investigating again, deeper, or – ” Too late. She twitched her mouth up in a smirk – definitely on to him.

“Shut up, Nolan.” And she was back to her plans, this new piece of data already absorbed and filed away.

Damn it.

He should have walked away when he had the chance.

  
 **2\. Desperation**

Everything was wrong.

Emily could feel the threads unraveling through her fingers as she dug bare feet into sand, shoes abandoned in her mad dash against the night.

Victoria's wails cut through air thick with humidity and the intoxicating electricity of fear. Even in her distracted panic – clues, clues, there had to be clues. What _happened?_ – that sound of distress sent a thrill through Emily's core. She wanted to throw her head back, let the song of despair carry her off on a wild waltz across the beach.

Instead, she ran.

This wasn't the plan. Her heart pounded against her chest as the scene came into sight, Victoria slumped over her son, chest heaving with stifled groans. The flutter of a laugh died as a memory hit.

_Daniel, hand caressing through her hair with his easy intimacy, whispering about the future he wanted far away from the grasping hands of his family, in any other corner of the world but this one. His smile when he murmured of the escape she had so carefully crafted into the perfect dream to break Victoria's grip._

She'd lost control. _Daniel was innocent,_ her father's voice rang in her ears, a disapproving echo. She was only after the guilty, he wasn't supposed to –

“Call an ambulance!” The world swam back into clarity (Tears? Where had those come from? She blinked them away, frustrated). Tyler had materialized from nowhere, slipping into a scene where he didn't belong. His specialty. His hands were covered in blood where he pressed on Daniel's chest. “He's still alive!”

Emily reached for her phone but it was gone, lost with the purse that she must have abandoned on the run. Another thread that would have to be collected. Sloppy. Panic settled into her muscles, leaving her twitching and useless, but Conrad was already on it, yapping orders into a cell. Emily didn't have to eavesdrop to know that an ambulance was coming, not just as fast as possible but three times faster than that. The power money could buy; today, it might be the power to save a life.

Re-collect. Reexamine. Re-control.

Victoria was on the ground, shoved aside by Tyler but still sobbing, incoherence muddled with melodrama. Beneath the tears Emily caught her sneaking sharp glances at her husband, ready to jump in if Conrad wasn't performing to her standards. Melodrama indeed. The woman never did anything accidentally, not even her own son's near-death experience.

 _I should be crying,_ Emily realized. But the tears that had come unbidden moments before were gone. Stunned shock would have to do. It was hardly acting.

“What happened?” she burst out, hitting just the right notes of scared and confused. She didn't need to fake the nervous tremor that infected her tone. Perfect. But with the rush of new faces clamoring down the beach to catch the show, Emily's performance was lost on the Graysons. Between Victoria's histrionics and the gasps of the gathering crowd, nobody had time for the unwanted fiancee.

Except for Tyler. He shot her a single glace, and she knew. The hate and anger that blazed across his face said it all; she recognized the feeling.

Pieces were falling apart so quickly she could hardly keep up. How did she allow a common con so much power? He was supposed to be playing Shoots and Ladders to her game of master chess, and here he was killing a knight. _Nolan_.

Slowly, she took the final steps through the grass, ignoring as it scratched at her legs and hands. Irrelevant. She knelt beside Victoria, close enough to hear the Queen's whispered prayer. Daniel's breathing was labored and rasping, so shallow it was more like a ghost than life. At least it was something to focus on,to block off the whispers and the screams, the general restless rumble sweeping over the beach, louder than any fireworks.

Recenter. Re-collect.

Regain control.

Emily's hands sought the bullet wound with a detached, methodical efficiency. The shooter missed the heart, missed any vital organs. Ribs were broken, clearly. Blood matted Daniel's shirt, staining Emily's hands as she moved them tenderly along his chest. It wasn't good, but it should have been much worse. The would-be killer was incompetent.

She looked up and there was Tyler across the body, fixing her with a stony stare. His mask of concern flickered when she met his eyes, that tell-tale anger flaring up again. Anger, and a delightful touch of selfish worry.

Incompetent. Yes.

“You're crowding him,” Tyler growled, tone heavy with hidden threat. Possessive even after his attempt at murder. Deranged, Emily realized. More totally deranged than she'd known. _Thanks for the update, Nolan._

“Of course,” she agreed. She'd already seen everything she needed to. She withdrew her bloody hands and stood, pointlessly brushing bits of sand off of her ruined dress. Never mind that. The more of a mess she appeared, the better.

She strode over to Conrad, who stood half in shock, phone still pressed against his ear, blinking towards the road as if he could will the ambulance there by the power of his desire.

“I – I think I need to lie down,” Emily stammered in his direction. “I'll meet you at the hospital.”

He nodded vacantly and she was off, pounding across the beach, half formed plans already weaving new patterns in her mind.

***

Nolan was already there when she burst into her living room, panting heavily.

He paced, a nervous mouse caught in a maze he'd never had a chance of navigating. The sight of his fluttering hands – grasping at the air as if comfort would appear from nowhere, the idiot – attracted all of her frustration, and for a livid moment she wanted to hit him.

Control. Get it under control.

“What happened to taking care of Tyler?” Meant to be a quiet threat, it came out a yell, and she had to jam her eyes shut for a moment to recenter and stop all her anger from spilling out in a ranting tirade.

Nolan spun to face her, tears sparkling in his eyes. Closer examination revealed wet streaks down his cheeks. “Tyler?” Emily could see the pieces fall into place. “Oh.” Pause. Hands running through hair, anxious. “Is Daniel – Is he – ” He stopped. He couldn't say it.

“No, Nolan. He's not _dead_.” She put cold emphasis on the last word and was satisfied to see Nolan cringe. “You didn't answer my question.”

“I...” He shook his head, collapsing onto the couch in a gesture of defeat; shrunken and jumpy. “I was clearly not as good at this as I wanted to be.” A small shudder wracked his body.

Emily laughed. Unbidden, unwanted, but deep, rolling up from her stomach and spreading all the way to her fingertips. _Not as good at this as I wanted to be_. She laughed again at the extent of the understatement.

Nolan's face – so expressive, he needed to work on that – twitched with hurt and confusion.

“This isn't a joke.” He stood, squaring his shoulders. Looking for a fight. Of course. Whenever things got tough, there he was, ready to run. As if he hadn't volunteered his service, hadn't practically thrown himself at her feet, forcing his way into her plots against every protest.

Not just ready to run, she realized as he unfolded himself, determination steadying his stance. Ready to try to drag her away with him yet again. Save her from herself, or whatever it was he thought he was doing.

Ridiculous, and she didn't have time for it. Things needed to go into motion. Now. “I never said it was a joke.”

“I'm sorry I messed up.” Pleading. Here it was... “But I can't keep doing this.” Right on time.

The urge to punch him swelled up, annoyance mixing with rage at the way he looked at her, begging for – what? A sign of sorrow. A sign of humanity. Tears. Regret. Well, he should be used to disappointment. She wished she could tie him to a chair and explain everything over and over until he saw reason. The way they all deserved to burn, the entangled web he couldn't escape with just a few words. If only she could implant one of those chips of his in his brain to keep him in line.

She realized her fists were clenched. With effort, she loosened them. “So, what?” she hissed. “You're out, right as things get interesting?”

Wrong word. His jaw slacked, cheeks flushed. He sprang across the distance between them until their faces were only inches apart, his breath warm across her face. “This isn't _interesting,_ Ems. This is insane. Daniel could be _dead_.”

“I didn't mean – ”

“I'm going to walk out that door and leave all of this behind. For good this time. I hope you do the same, but don't you _dare_ try to stop me.” For a moment, his voice dropped and he seemed to grow taller. Ah, so that was the Nolan Tyler must have seen. The Nolan who could actually be a threat.

The Nolan who was too valuable an ally to let slip away just as everything was falling apart. He tried to stride past her, but she had years of honed instincts on her side. Her hand leaped to his shoulder, fingers digging into shirt and skin, pushing him back. “You're not leaving.”

“What did I just say?” A ting of threat still lingered in his voice, a tantalizing promise of who he could be. No way was she letting him get away. Not again.

“I don't want you to go.” She was surprised to find how much it wasn't a lie.

“Ems – ”

She cut his protest short with a kiss. An instinct, all the little clues coming together, but as soon as her lips met his she knew it was the right move. Firm, insistent, she swung one hand around his head, planted the other on his cheek, ignoring the blood still sticking to her fingers. She tugged him closer. He stiffened for a moment, but relaxed when she didn't relent, mouth opening to deepen the kiss with a desperate sort of hunger. Hands wrapped around her waist, his hips shoved against hers. She ran her fingers down his back, hard, and earned a moan for the effort – deep and throaty, completely uninhibited.

She broke away, pleased to see Nolan slightly stunned. He breathed heavily; it took a few moments for him to drop his hands and step back.

“Damn it, Ems – ”

“Tyler shot Daniel. I need you to help me prove it.”

Nolan's gaze fixed on her lips, a hand fluttered to where hers had rested a moment before; a faint streak of blood stood out against his pale cheek.

“I hate you,” he muttered, but all the threat was gone.

A genuine smile crept up on Emily; she could feel it break across her face involuntarily. Mission accomplished. “No, you don't.”

For the second time that night, she laughed.

  
 ****

**3\. Weakness**

Friday, 3:00 pm. Even from his study, Nolan could hear his penthouse door fly open and slam shut. Right on time.

Heels clacked against wood floors as Emily made her way across the living room and down the hall, determined strides getting louder as she neared his lair. Her single-minded focus seemed to fill the whole apartment, seeping under the door and enveloping him. New York always felt cramped and crowded, even in the vast private home he had carved out for himself, but nothing compared to the way Emily could fill every inch of the space with her presence.

Nolan closed his computer and swiveled around just as she planted herself in the study doorway.

“Tough week at the hospital?” he joked, putting off the moment when he was finally going to say _, No, not this week. I can't keep doing this_.

“Daniel's much better, actually.” She eyed him with a hungry expression, all raw energy and itching anger. Dutiful fiancee was not a role that suited her. He was surprised no one else could see the way she'd been practically crawling out of her own skin ever since the shooting.

“Goodie for Daniel.” Her eyes flashed with annoyance, and something else, something magnetic that shot through him, and suddenly all he wanted to do was throw her against the wall and screw her senseless, hands running over familiar breasts as she moaned in impossible abandon. Not today. “My lawyers are making good progress - ”

“Tell me later.” She was already removing her dress, letting it slip to the floor in a practiced movement as she crossed the room, all curves and creamy pale skin. Already straddling him, rubbing against his lap as her tongue forced its way into his mouth, coaxing a moan as one hand drifted down –

Damn it, Ems.

He broke the kiss. It was the hardest thing in the world. Startled, Emily pulled back, fixing him with a reproachful look.

“Ems – ” He tried to remember the speech he'd prepared, something about being a person with feelings, not a sex doll. It had seemed very clever and convincing, but somehow when she rocked her hips just like that and – what was the problem, again? Feelings? Yeah, feelings. Something about being left empty and sad. Those were the words.

Her breasts heaved, dramatic and charming. He snapped his eyes shut. Distraction, bad. “Ems, I – ”

“Nolan.” Hard. Cold. No room for argument. His eyes opened again without his permission. She ran a hand across his cheek, brushing her thumb along his jaw. For a moment, she seemed almost tender. Or maybe apologetic. “Please,” she whispered, and if was a lie, it was a good one.

Damn it. She might not want him, but she needed someone, and here he was. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

He pulled her down for another kiss.

***

Afterward, they lay next to each other, naked, debauched, and not touching. Never touching. As the adrenaline drained the familiar sting of scratches along his back caught up with him. The sex was already fading into a blend of memories, just one more time of many in the months since Daniel's injury. It was the _please_ that echoed in his mind, the ghost of her hand caressing his cheek. It had definitely been tender. Probably.

He reached a hand across the floor, found her fingers already tapping out an impatient rhythm, mind elsewhere. And then – crazy, he was completely crazy – he gently placed his hand over hers and squeezed.

She started up, snatching her hand away. Stood and grabbed her dress from the floor, a movement so quick he could hardly follow it. She clutched it to herself, as if aware of her own nakedness for the first time.

“You said something about your lawyers?” She pulled the dress on, not bothering to find her underwear. He'd gone too far.

Suddenly, he felt ridiculous, lying naked and cold on his own office floor. He shifted to sitting, pulling his knees in and trying very hard not to let any disappointment show.

“Nolan?” Emily quizzed, as she ran a hand through her hair, putting back on her perfect image. “Status update?”

Maybe next week would be different. Maybe next week he'd finally decide he'd had enough.

 _Please_.

But probably not. (Definitely not.) He'd play this game until she didn't need it anymore, and then move on to the next one without complaining.

“Nolan?” she prompted. “The case?”

Ah, yes. They'd had something of a breakthrough, finally found the man who'd sold Tyler his gun. The news would make Emily smile – he could already imagine it, one of those rare real smiles that lit up her face with a chilling brightness impossible to look away from.

Damn it, Ems.

He was never going to say no, and he wouldn't even mind.

  


**4\. Comfort**

Breaking up with Daniel shouldn't have been hard. It was always part of the plan, one of the strongest threads in her ever-shifting masterwork. Date him, change him, set him free to pursue the wide world far from his parents – after stealing a security pass to Grayson Global, of course. It was good for him, it would break Victoria's heart, and it gave her the key to finishing off her plot. Perfect.

Yes, it would make her the evil bitch who cheated on him – while he was in the hospital, no less, an extra indignity he had Tyler to thank for – but that was hardly a concern. Everyone has their heart broken at some point. He was young and handsome and rich, with plenty of time to find someone else, someone not entangled in the Hamptons. Someone to escape with.

So why, facing his uncomprehending puppy-dog face, did it take every ounce of her will to admit: “I've been sleeping with someone else”?

His hand pressed to the bullet wound – three months out of the hospital, but it was still the center of his pain. His voice was thick with confusion as he begged. _Why?_ _Why, Emily?_ _Maybe we can still make this work_. He was nice, and she was hurting him, stomping all over his heart with a calculated story that only happened to be true. Hurting him because she'd always meant to.

Her tears weren't fake, and she hated herself for it. _Weak, Emily._ This was exactly what Takeda had meant.

She was a viper, and vipers don't cry.

He stood. Tried to kiss her. Tried to forgive her, hurt overridden by the fear of seeing her walk out the door. Already he was coming up with excuses for her – the shooting was scary, anyone would be confused, it was a difficult time, they could be all right. He should have listened to her about Tyler, he should have seen the signs. He should be able to remember, it would make the trial so much easier on both of them. _Oh Emily_ –

As if it was his fault. He couldn't see the web she had wrapped him in. He blamed himself.

Tears burned down her cheeks.

_A viper._

“Please don't call me.”

She swept out of the apartment before he could kiss her. And if she needed to lean against the elevator wall for support on her way down and out of his life...

Well, there was no one there to see it.

***

The smell of Chinese food hit her as soon as she opened her apartment door, an overwhelming mix of grease, ginger, and something sweet. She hadn't had Chinese in weeks.

Immediately she grabbed the vase she kept in her entrance-way. It was a steel modernist monstrosity; hideous, but heavy. She shifted the weapon in her hand and crept forward, avoiding every creaking floorboard as she made her way down the hall towards the kitchen. Muscles thrummed with sudden adrenaline, the lingering sense of guilt over Daniel instantly forgotten.

The kitchen door was already open – she hadn't left it like that. She raised the vase and peeked around, ready to –

Nolan.

What?

She dropped the vase to her side and stormed in. Takeout containers littered her normally immaculate granite counters; oak cabinets were open and the kitchen island, usually reserved for eating over alone and hurried, was set for two. Nolan was perched on a stool, clutching a glass of water and looking pleased with himself.

“How did you get in here?” she demanded, mildly dumbstruck. This was – unexpected.

“Hello to you, too.” He stood with a sycophantically satisfied smile, sweeping his arms in a broad gesture, encompassing _her_ kitchen. “I thought you might like a little post-breakup meal. Clear your palette with some delicious, artery-clogging dumplings, perhaps?”

She remembered the burning taste of tears in her throat as Daniel shouted after her, pleading for her to come back.

 _You're a viper. And you can't trust anyone_.

She raised the vase. “How did you get into my apartment?” The sight of Nolan's smile melting away was reassuring. A little bit of control returned, the world put back on balance by just that much.

“I may have... copied your key a little.”

The vase soared across the room, just missing Nolan as he ducked. It clanged loudly against the wall and fell to the floor with a bang. The air reverberated with the ring; the sound felt good.

It only took three strides to have Nolan shoved against the wall with an equally satisfying thud. His eyes widened as he pushed back and realized he was pinned by her arm across his chest.

For a moment, she had the greedy urge to kiss him – an indulgence she hadn't allowed herself since Daniel was released from the hospital. Nolan's half hopeful expression gave him away: he was thinking the same thing, with blindingly obvious desire. It would be so easy to lean forward, give in to simple instinct –

 _Viper_.

She settled for another shove.

“Ow!”

“You _copied my key_?” What did she expect him to say? She wasn't sure, but she reveled in the edge of fear that seeped across his face as he realized he was in trouble.

He nodded. “You have my key, it seemed fair.”

Shove. Thud. “Ow!”

“Tell me why I shouldn't kick you out, change the lock, and never let you in again?” _Because you won't_ , a small and clearly confused part of her brain responded. Of course she would. Could. If she felt like it. It's not like she needed him.

Nolan blinked at her as if unable to wrap his mind around being given the chance to defend himself. As if she'd never given him a second chance before. A thousand of them.

The urge to kiss him hit her again, so strong she had to stumble backwards to resist it.

“Why shouldn't I change my locks?” she repeated.

“Uh, because I'm your friend?”

Emily snorted a laugh, forcing herself to re-center. No crazy urges, no tears. She was calm, collected, and rational. “I don't have friends, Nolan. You know that.” He grinned a knowing sort of grin she wasn't sure she liked. “Give me a real reason before I count to three. One – ”

“Fine, Jack Bauer. Because I've had the copy for months, and only used it to bring you Chinese food. And hot actions stars blowing things up,” he added, gesturing at a stack of DVDs hidden behind the takeout. “A congratulations gift for breaking your fiance's heart. Even friendless revenge robots deserve that.” He added a hopeful little smile.

Emily suppressed a smile of her own. She would not laugh at that joke, and she certainly was _not_ touched by the gesture, even if mindless action movies sounded like exactly what she needed. “Two -”

Nolan held up his hands in submission. “Okay. Fine. In all seriousness, maybe one day you need me to run over here and burn the evidence. Wouldn't it be useful for me to be able to get in?”

He had her there. It was logical, and anything that really mattered was backed by more security than a single house key. He was smart enough to know that.

Plus, that Chinese food smelled really excellent. (And maybe, just maybe, she wasn't ready to break another heart today.)

Against all her better instincts, she nodded. “Fine. But you should have asked.” She ducked around to grab a plate, trying to ignore the way his face lit up.

And if, as they were halfway through the third movie, they slipped towards each other on the couch, and if maybe, just maybe she rested her head on his shoulder, staring straight ahead and ignoring the way he shifted to wrap his arm around her...

Well, she'd had a weird day.

  
 ****

**5\. Honesty**

“Honey, I'm home.” Nolan grinned at his own joke as he pushed open the door to Emily's apartment, lattes balanced on one hand. It had been a good day. NolCorp's quarterly report was up, the Tyler case was proceeding wonderfully, and he'd screwed Grayson Global out of a deal just for the sheer joy of knowing Conrad would go to bed angry. All and all the kind of day Emily would enjoy hearing about over coffee, even if she'd insist on hiding her pleasure under the brisk guise of formality.

And, of course, today was the day Emily was going to break into the Grayson's personal files; the day every one of her schemes had built to. If it went as planned – and it had on his end, he had Conrad under his watch for all four essential hours – Emily would have all the ammunition she needed to execute her most exquisite take-down and clear David's name. Maybe even enough to justify the path of wreckage and destruction she'd left behind.

The Graysons returned to the Hamptons in a month; finally reunited, they were busily preparing their triumphant re-ascension to the top of the social ladder. The King and Queen would fall in front of their entire world, just has they had dragged David down so many years before. It was gorgeous in its perversity.

“Ems?” he shouted when she didn't respond with her usual biting quip. He stomped down the hall and into her frighteningly sterile, and completely empty, kitchen. He dropped the lattes on the counter. “Hello?”

She was supposed to be here. He was late, actually – held up at one of those infernal NolCorp happy hours that he would cancel, except HR kept insisting they were good for morale – and she was always decidedly punctual. Unless...

A spasm of panic shot down his spine.“Ems?!”

“Go away, Nolan.” The voice was muffled, in another room. Nolan spun around, trying to follow the sound, then dashed to the living room. No slinky blonde amidst the trendy minimalist armchairs and glass bookshelves.

“Where are you?”

“Go away!”

If he hadn't known better, he'd say her shout had the slurred edge of drunkenness. “No!” He slipped into her bedroom, a cream colored shrine to a sublime lie, walls lined with pictures of false memories. He'd only been in the room once before – its Stepford perfection was too chilling.

The bathroom door was open.

“Ems? Are you sick?”

“I will kill you if you don't leave.” Okay. He was going crazy, because that sounded both drunk _and_ hysterical, two words that had little to do with the Emily he knew.

“Get ready to hire some assassins, then,” he warned, and walked in.

The bathroom was huge, a testament to the extent of her wealth, the kind of massive luxury that seemed obscene in the cramped buildings of New York. Water covered the tiled floor; Emily lay in a deep tub that lined the back wall, one arm dangling over the edge, clutching a half empty bottle of vodka in a pose so pointedly melodramatic Nolan wanted to cry. As if she needed to make herself into a character for him. She should know better than that.

He ignored her dark glare and swiftly crouched by her side, slipping the bottle out of her hand before she caught up to what he was doing. Even smashed, her eyes followed him closely, analyzing everything, just two beats behind instead of three ahead.

“You don't listen,” she complained. “Or is 'go away' too complicated a concept for the brilliant Nolan Ross?”

Nolan ducked to hide a flush. _Brilliant_ was probably the nicest thing she'd ever called him. He'd have to tease her about it later – _after_ he found out what was going on. Ems, drunk in the middle of the afternoon, naked and alone in the bathtub: there was something deeply disturbing about the whole scene.

“No, I understand fine. You're right, I just don't listen.” He scooted closer. “What's wrong?”

Her glare intensified, eyes squinting so tightly she tipped from intimidating to absurd. If it had been anyone else, it might have seemed cute, but with Emily it just made Nolan's stomach clench in sick worry. He wanted to pull her out of the tub, shake her until she snapped back to the icy, restrained woman he knew.

Silence stretched and he could practically see her scrolling through her options. Keep arguing? Too annoying. Physically throw him out? She was clearly too drunk for that. Just remain silent?

He was beginning to think she'd chosen that last option when she sighed, a small sound released so quickly he almost missed it.

“I got the files,” she murmured, words slow and sticky. “I got – I got the truth.”

Then why the dramatics? “That's good. Right?”

She turned to look at the ceiling, hand waving absentmindedly in the direction of the vodka. He pulled it away. “Yes,” she agreed. “I got what I needed.”

“But...?”

Another sigh. Then, in a whisper so soft he could barely hear: “I also found out Charlotte is my sister. Half sister.”

It hung in the air, an insane concept that instantly transformed itself into a perfectly logical puzzle piece. Victoria’s child by David – yeah, from the causal hints he'd picked up about their affair, the timeline fit. David had never said anything. Did he even know? Nolan tried to remember – were there signs? Strange pauses or distant stares? He was in no way the right person to analyze body language based on long dead memories.

“Ems – ”

Suddenly her eyes were everywhere, impossibly wide and staring straight at him, piercing him in place; drunken haziness turned to intoxicated passion. “Did you know?” she hissed.

She might have well have punched him. “God, Ems, no. I would – I would never have – no.” He leaned forward. His voice betrayed all kinds of hurt, but who cared? This wasn't the time for hiding. “I would have told you.”

She splashed, trying to turn away; a wave of lukewarm water splattered across his knees. Without thinking, he grabbed her shoulder, yanking her back around. Her body didn't resist, pliant in her drunkenness.

“Get off!” she snarled. But under the damp strands of hair that clung to her face, he saw tears streaming. She recoiled as if slapped and looked away. Damn it – his expression had betrayed him. He wondered how long it had been since someone had last seen her cry.

Probably years.

“Fine,” he muttered, a little awed. “I'll go... Make tea or something.” He grabbed the vodka before she could. “This comes with me.”

As he slipped out of the bathroom, he threw back a shot, wincing at the burn.

***

Fifteen minutes later Emily emerged from her room, wrapped in a silk bathrobe that fell to her knees, wet hair swept into an easy bun.

 _Radiant_. He immediately dismissed the thought. Inappropriate, given the circumstances.

She took the tea he offered without comment, perching on a stool at her kitchen island. He pulled up another stool across from her and straddled it.

Silence. Nolan couldn't keep his eyes from slipping towards the oven clock. Two minutes. Three minutes. Five.

“Is she who I would have been?” Emily finally asked. An honest question. Unprecedented, and if Nolan wasn't completely insane – an increasingly possible alternative, all things considered – she looked slightly frightened as she watched him, gaze begging for an answer.

What did she wanted to hear? “Charlotte,” Nolan mused. He was vaguely aware of the youngest Grayson. Smarter than she looked, and determined enough to keep seeing Declan despite Victoria's prying. Oh, good old Decs bragged about it like the successful sneaking around was his doing, but it didn't take a genius to see where the real smarts lay in that relationship.

Declan. Charlotte even had her own Porter.

“Maybe,” Nolan admitted. It was hard to imagine – Emily (Amanda, really), the pseudo-rebellious teen, creeping out to parties and falling in love with a noble townie as her big f-you to the trap of privilege. Compare that to the Amanda he'd known, jet black hair and juvie slang, hating the world and reveling in the options his money gave her, taking to financial management with a cold efficiency matched only by men in suits with MBAs from Ivy League schools. “I prefer you like this.”

She laughed, and gave him a sad smile. “Maybe you're right about Jack,” she mused. Her fingers drummed against her tea mug, lost in contemplation for a moment. “Maybe we were meant to be, once.”

If it was a knife to the heart, Nolan refused to notice.

Emily laughed again, louder, a tinkling chuckle of true amusement. “You really need to work on keeping your emotions in check,” she chided, but the smile lingered around her eyes.

Shit. Nolan groaned and buried his face in his hands, vaguely wondering what it would be like to spend time with someone who _didn't_ know every thought that crossed his mind. It would probably be nice. Simple. (Boring.) “I'll go,” he offered into his hands.

“No.” It was a command, immediate and firm.

He looked up, confused. He didn't bother to ask the question – clearly, she'd read it on his face. She was calmly sipping her tea, surveying him with a blank expression over the edge of the mug. She set it down with deliberate slowness. Enjoying herself.

Ha, ha. Very funny. (At least she wasn't crying anymore.)

“No sex,” she stated blandly, and Nolan gaped. It had been the furthest thing from his mind. “But,” She paused and sighed, as if she were already regretting her next words. “I don't want to sleep alone tonight.”

Yes. Hell yes. Hell to the yes, in fact.

Nolan tried to keep his face neutral. It probably didn't work, but what the heck, he'd at least attempt to preserve some dignity. He pretended to consider, and then nodded. “Yeah, I can be a bed warmer. No problemo.”

  
 ****

**6\. Trust**

Sirens blared against the night, flashing blue and white, a signal beckoning across the Hamptons: _Drama – Drama – Drama_.

Good. Emily dashed across the beach, sneakers slipping in the sand. She had an excuse to appear. What self respecting Hamptonite _wouldn't_ come running to gape at the first sign of trouble? It was the way of this world, she was just fitting in.

Conrad was already in cuffs when she reach the Grayson house, yelling into the night with empty bluster. Press swarmed with their cameras and their microphones, oh-so conveniently tipped off that the biggest story of the year was breaking. Perfect.

It didn't take long to locate Victoria in the scene, silk dressing gown bright in the moonlight, hair tossed, distress painted across every feature, from her twisted mouth to her shifting feet. The police ignored her entreaties, pushing her away as they shoved her husband into the car. The press, on the other hand...

Emily swept through the crowd, ignoring the cameras that pressed on Victoria, shutters snapping and questions buzzing, a loud blend of _what_ s and _why_ s and _how do you feel?_ s. Victoria was speechless, just this once. (Or maybe that was an act too – even Emily couldn't quite tell.)

She pushed her way to her enemy's side. “She has no comment,” she declared sweetly, placing a gentle hand on Victoria's arm and leading her away. “Come on, Victoria.”

They stumbled up the stairs of the Graysons’ Hampton palace, finally coming to rest on the front porch. Above the fray, looking down at all the little people. Just as Victoria liked it.

The Queen had regained her composure. She fixed Emily with an ungrateful glare. “Come to gloat?” she asked, voice emotionless. “Come to enjoy my misfortune?”

“Yes.” Fuck. She hadn't meant to say that, had meant to kill with one last kindness, keeping the upper-hand through the very end.

_Daddy!_

The viper's skin fell away, and for a moment she was nine again, watching her father be dragged away by towering faceless men. No more upper hand. Truth time, she realized. She had to.

Victoria's smile was charmingly fake. “How uncharitable of you. I know you had a falling out with my son, but to come and – ”

She stopped when Emily giggled, and for a moment she looked frightened.

“This has nothing to do with Daniel,” Emily explained, regaining her composure. “I like Daniel. I'm very glad he's far away from you.”

Victoria flinched, but pulled herself back into impassivity immediately. Only the glances flicked towards the scene below betrayed her anxiety. “Whatever you have against me hardly seems enough to mock my husband's arrest.”

Emily smiled, a smile she'd designed to strike fear straight into an opponent's core. “Not just arrest, Victoria. Humiliation. Loss of fortune. National hatred.”

Victoria’s eyes widened; she breathed in sharply. Ah, so she hadn't known why Conrad was under arrest. Fantastic.

Emily took a step forward, until they were almost nose to nose, the final pieces left in this deadly game. “Oh, don't worry. There's no link to you. Yet. But there could be, very easily.” Smile again, though it was unnecessary: Victoria was already frozen, the quick rise and fall of her chest betraying her panic.

This wasn't the plan. This was a really awful idea.

_Daddy!_

An idea driven by emotion. She could see Takeda in the back of her mind, disappointed frown. He was right after all. Victoria's distress felt like euphoria, and she couldn't let that feeling go.

She tilted her head and smiled. “Being the daughter of the devil, that's bad. But the wife?” Cruel laugh. “That's going to be so much worse.” She leaned forward, lips brushing Victoria’s ear. “After all, I didn't have a choice.”

She drew back just in time to watch the realization dawn.

“Amanda?” Victoria murmured, dumbstruck.

“And if anyone finds out, you're going to jail right along with your husband.”

Emily turned and stalked away, practically skipping down the steps.

***

Nolan's helicopter was one of several parked on the beach, NolCorp's logo blending in with local news outlets and major media corporations. He stood, leaning against the frame, a beacon through the mounting chaos surrounding the Grayson mansion. Emily sprinted forward.

He broke into as slow clap as she got into hearing range, not bothering to offer a hand as she hauled herself into the helicopter next to him.

“Beautiful execution, Ems,” he complimented as she stood. He pulled out his phone, flashing a news story. “It's already all over the web.” He added a small, self-satisfied grin. “It's good _somebody_ knew exactly who to call.”

Emily rolled her eyes. And if his teasing was a relief...

Okay. It was. A little. (A lot.)

“Thank you, Nolan. I could have done it without you, but it was nice having you around.” He cocked his head, smirking. “In more ways than one,” she admitted, only a little reluctantly.

His smirk turned into a real smile. She could feel it affecting her, his stupidly open expression leaping across the night and worming its way onto her face. She let it. Smiling felt good.

All of a sudden his eyes were darting over her like he was trying to memorize the moment. Then he was looking down, tapping at his phone with a forced casualness that was deeply unconvincing, smile gone. “So what now?” he asked, a pathetic attempt at nonchalance. “Off to Europe? A new life of fine wine and french cheese?”

Oh. He didn't want her to leave. Obviously. She should have thought of that before; the realization filled her with a giddy kind of warmth. He was in luck.

“It's not over,” she murmured. His head shot up, eagerness written in every corner of his suddenly tense stance. “I, uh, told Victoria who I am.”

His eyes lit up.

“You – ” He shook his head with an exaggerated sigh, but she didn't miss that hopeful look of his. “Well, I'm sure you can handle it,” he offered, not quite meeting her gaze.

Idiot.

She reached out and grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers together, warm skin against warm skin. This was probably a bad idea, but it felt like a damned good one. She turned to lock eyes with him, and almost laughed when she saw the confusion there. The fear and the longing.

Idiot.

She leaned forward. Kissed him, softly. Just for a moment, but that quiet touch was enough to leave him slack-jawed and staring, gripping her hand so tightly it hurt.

“No,” she said. “ _We_ can handle it.”

Hesitation. He clutched her hand even harder, like she might take it back at any second. “Really?” he whispered. _Will you really let me in?_ He didn't need to say the words.

“Yes, really. We're partners, Nolan.”

Slowly, his grip eased up. And then there they were, holding hands and watching the Grayson dynasty fall apart in front of the world.

Absolutely perfect.

***

_Emily Thorne splits the world into three groups – the guilty, the bystanders, and those she trusts._

_The last category contains two people: herself, and Nolan Ross._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I know A03 is sometimes buggy, so if you happen to be inclined to leave a comment and would find it easier to do at LJ, you can do so [here.](http://agnes-bean.livejournal.com/247378.html)


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